


Dark Sister, Bright Blade

by paradiamond



Series: Great Bastards [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 17:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1825741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brynden Rivers has spent the past decade rotting in the Black Cells, condemned by his King, forgotten by his people, and now abandoned by his lover, Shiera Seastar. When he receives a royal summons, he learns that the situation may not have been as it appeared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Sister, Bright Blade

The Black Cells do not agree with Brynden Rivers anymore than they did the countless other prisoners that have been left to rot in them over the centuries. Though not a weak willed or fussy man by any stretch, after over ten years of incarceration even the infamous Bloodraven himself can be worn down by the oppressive darkness, the constant but ever changing sounds, and the pervasive stench of fear. Without Shiera, who had visited him countless time over the course of his imprisonment, Brynden may well have been driven mad as well as forgotten. 

He’s without Shiera now. 

Bitterness choking him, Brynden makes himself sit up and assess his injury again. The last time a guard had seen to his needs, he had also seen to it that Brynden’s shoulder was dislocated. Chained up as he is, a relic of previous violent prisoner/guard interactions a few years ago, he could hardly defend himself properly. 

He moves the joint experimentally, and it does feel better. If Shiera were with him- 

But she isn’t. Hasn’t been, for _months_. His perception of time may be distorted, but he knows that much. The last time he had seen her, she had brought him some proper food and wine, shared his company for a few hours, and talked of the comings and goings at court. Then nothing. After everything they have been through, Shiera has apparently abandoned him to his fate. Finally she had given up on her freakish, kinslayer half brother just like Brynden always knew she would. He wants to hate her, but can’t quite summon it up. She’s a survivor, just like him. 

At first, over ten years ago, she had been sentenced to rot down in the cells with him but he didn’t know it. He hadn’t known anything about what had become of her when Maekar rose to the throne. He spent his days threatening, cajoling, and bribing guards, trying to get out so he could find out what had happened to her. When he finally succeeded, he found himself back in the very dungeon he tried to escape, kneeling in the dirt and arguing with her. 

“Get out of here,” she had hissed at him after he kissed her, looking angry and far dirtier than he had ever seen her, though it did nothing to diminish her beauty. He stared at her, blank faced and utterly exasperated, until she spoke again. “I am almost free of this place, and you are going to mess it up for me!” 

“I’m trying to save you!” he whispered, checking behind his shoulder to make sure no one had followed him. There was no one of course, he was excellent at sneaking around. 

“Don’t!” she said, earnestly. “I’m glad to see that you are alive and unhurt but I’m to be released soon. Then I can work on matters from above, instead of being a fugitive.” 

Brynden narrowed his eyes, but decided to trust that she wouldn’t plan to leave him behind to rot. They had been through too much together for that. “Do you think you can get me out? Maekar will never-” 

“I don’t _know_ Brynden, I may have a plan but I can’t guarantee it yet.” She glanced around. “You might be better served taking this opportunity and running-” 

“Without you?” he asked, glaring at her before checking behind him again. “I think not.” 

“Brynden…” 

He turned away from her then, not thinking to doubt her when it came to her own freedom. She wouldn’t turn down his offer if she wasn’t sure she could get out of the Cells. He called over his shoulder. “Come talk to me when you are able and tell me of this _plan._ ” Then he left, going back to his cell with no one the wiser. 

She was pardoned a week later, and managed to visit him two weeks after that with food and a smile. But now...

“-up!” A voice says, very close to him. “Wake up!” 

Brynden opens his eyes, realizing for the first time in a while that they had been closed. He must have been dreaming of her then. He squints up into the torch light to see his would-be tormentor. It’s a guard, mean faced and a little scared. _Good,_ Brynden thinks, annoyed. _You should be._

The guard flinches away from his gaze, and Brynden realizes that there are several more standing behind him. Confused, he makes more of an effort to sit up properly, displaying himself for their morbid curiosity. No doubt some of them had only heard of the King’s infamous cousin in whispers, or perhaps yells. It only makes the guards more nervous, and they shift around on their feet, brandishing their weapons. 

The first guard speaks, but avoids looking into his eye. “The King wishes to see you.” 

Brynden frowns, thinking hard. At length, he replies. “I doubt that.” Maeker had never wanted anything to do with him, and if Brynden was going to be executed it would have happened years ago. 

The guards glance at each other. “Be that as it may,” the first one manages, and Brynden can’t help but admire his spine. He knows his own reputation. “The King will see you. Now.” 

“Very well,” Brynden says, standing as far as the chains allow and offering the guard his clasped hands. The other guards titter and clutch at their swords when their leader gets within arms reach, and Brynden doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. Not that he couldn’t kill the man, he just doesn’t want to ruin his opportunity at a change of scenery. 

They lead him, still bound but not tethered, up the stairs and into the real light. For a moment, Brynden is blinded by the intensity of it, an intense pain building at the back of his one good eye that is even worse than it was when the guards brought the torch. This is all consuming, and it takes effort of his part not to stop moving or flinch. 

Distracted and quite literally blinded by the light, Brynden doesn’t realize where he is or who he has been placed in front of until he finds himself standing right in front of a person he finally recognizes as an adult Aegon V, his half nephew. Confused and a bit offended, Brynden manages a half bow. “I thought I was to be brought before the King, my prince,” Brynden says, caught between his instinct to be rude and his desire to stay above ground for as long as possible. 

Aegon says nothing, visibly considering his form. Brynden straightens his back and squares his shoulders to show him how much mass he had not lost in the cells. How he had kept himself in fighting form even while a prisoner in his own home. Next to him, some advisor or another speaks in a high, simpering voice. “Show some respect. You are addressing the King, Bloodraven.” 

Scattered laughter echoes in the room, which Aemon silences with a look but Brynden steadfastly ignores, intrigued by this development. Maekor is dead, Aemon must have passed over the throne, and now Aegon summons him from the Black Cells after all these years. 

“Your Grace,” he says, and drops to one knee, thinking _Shiera._

He never should have doubted her. He never will again. 

***

The royal coronation is a bloated, ridiculous event. Even after it ends every highborn lord and lady in Kings Landing and the surrounding provinces seems to be crammed into the throne room, watching each other and clawing for attention. Aegon V and his councillors have retired to his chambers, but the rabble remains. A new king means new opportunities for most, but for Brynden it means a chance to renew old ties. 

He stands above the rest in the high balconies, out of the way but still more present than most people are comfortable with. Occasionally, some lord or another will cast a nervous glance in his direction, but for the most part the room is resolutely looking anywhere but at him. He pays them no mind, scanning the room for his lover, his savior. 

He smiles, causing the guard ‘protecting’ him to flinch, and thinks about the many way he wants to repay his sweet half sister when he gets her alone. Looking around the room almost lazily, because he knows that Shiera won’t be seen until she wants to be, he allows himself time to enjoy being out of the dungeon, for he knows that all good things must come with a price, and soon it will be time to pay his. 

“My Lord Hand,” a voice behind him calls out, and he turns to see a tall man with a large sword and and exceedingly common face approaching. 

“Am I still a Lord, Ser Duncan?” Brynden asks, dryly. “I wasn’t informed.” 

Duncan stops a few feet behind him and regards him silently. Brynden presses his advantage. “Of course, I am certainly more of a Lord than you are, _Ser_ , but I am no Hand of the King, not anymore.” 

To his credit, Duncan doesn’t flinch but replies blithely. “Do you think you know me, my lord?” 

_More than you know but not with this face,_ Brynden thinks, though he suspects that he sees a glimmer of real intelligence in Duncan’s eyes. Perhaps he will make a worthy successor. 

“I know all men,” he says instead, choosing to believe that his reputation still holds some weight. 

True to form, Duncan merely nods. “I see, well you will certainly be getting to know a wide range of them up at the Wall. I hear they take all kinds.” Brynden frowns, but Duncan raises a hand. “Before you decide to murder me so soon after your release, I have a message for you from your sister.” 

Brynden raises an eyebrow, intrigued and ready to drop the posturing. “I see,” he says, coldly. _My sister, you mean my heart._

Duncan turns to the guard. “You may go,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. 

The guard visibly hesitates. “But, Ser-” 

“Ser? I am the Hand of the King, I speak with the King’s voice and I am telling you to leave,” Duncan says, tone firm enough to make most men quail. The guard nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to get away Brynden notes with approval. Duncan watches him go, so that when the guard turns back, he’s still staring right at him. 

“You might make it in Kings Landing after all,” Brynden says, more to himself than to the other man, leading the way to a more secluded spot. Duncan doesn’t respond, but politely directs him down a different path. Brynden takes a moment to appreciate that Shiera has the new Hand doing her errands for her. They move through the castle by way of back stairs and servants quarters until they are standing outside of Brynden’s former chambers. Brynden’s impressed in spite of himself. 

“Well Ser Hand, what is this mysterious message?” he asks, playing his part and imagining Shiera just on the other side of the door, beautiful and smiling. 

Duncan gives him a knowing look. “Ask her yourself. I have an entire kingdom to run,” he says, and walks away without a second glance. Brynden watches him go, in an uncharacteristically good mood, and never sees him again. 

Brynden pushes the door open to find a beautifully decorated, and distinctly feminine room. The furnishings are the same as he remembers, but all of the linens are different, as are the decorations. “Someone made herself right at home,” he mutters, trying and failing to feel annoyed by it. Of course, Shiera is not in the room. Apparently they are playing some kind of game. 

He shuts the door, feeling the familiar weight of it beneath his hand as he refamiliarizes himself with his own life. For now. 

“Shiera?” he calls out. She doesn’t answer, which doesn’t surprise him. Brynden turns to better investigate his surrounding and spots something on his dark wood desk. He takes in a breath, then lets it out slowly. “Well well, what have we here.” 

_Dark Sister_ , his sword. Traditionally the sword of the second born Targaryen son. The Dragonknight Aemon Targaryen’s before him, and Visenya Targaryen’s sword before all others. Brynden had thought it lost to him forever, taken from him by Maekar’s people and given away to a lesser owner, or worse, destroyed. 

“Like it?” 

He spins, startled in spite of himself. Shiera is behind him, lounging on his bed. “You should know that it took a while to find, and even longer to procure for you,” she says, smiling coyly. Brynden doesn’t respond, his mouth suddenly too dry to speak, instead he focuses on walking towards her, stripping off armor and clothing as he goes. Shiera is wearing her green and blue gemstone necklace. Only. 

He goes to her, crawling on his hands and knees on the bed as she watches with her sharp, mismatched eyes. They’re a defect, one small imperfection in her otherwise perfect face that somehow doesn’t diminish her at all. Other, lesser, people say that her eyes are a mark of her lustful, unholy, bastard heritage just like his own red eye, but Brynden loves her eyes most of all. 

“Come here,” she says softly, gentle now that she’s had her fun. Shiera always knows just how to be with him, and Brynden has never been more grateful. He reaches her at last, sliding one hand to wrap around her back to hold her to him and placing the other in her hair, feeling the softness of it. “I missed you,” he says, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. “I love you.” 

Shiera shivers and kisses him back, placing her hand on the side of his face, the side with the red birthmark. Brynden leans into her touch. He knows that he is not an attractive man, uses it to his advantage, but with her it doesn’t matter. When they were both younger and less used to each other, it used to bother Brynden when she touched it, or even when she looked at it. _It seems so ridiculous now,_ he thinks, lowering his hand to hitch her leg around his waist. _So ridiculous to have been that afraid of her._

He maintains his grasp on her leg as he presses into her, and she gasps. She’s wet, and hot, and Brynden’s going to die like this. He certainly isn’t going to last very long at this rate. He exhales sharply, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Being inside Shiera always shakes Brynden to the core, and he slides a hand between them to stroke Shiera where he know she wants it most to try to give her some of what she gives him. 

“Brynden,” she groans, digging her nails into his back. He wants to answer her, but he can’t, caught up in the physical sensations. Instead, he ducks his head to kiss her neck, pressing little bites harder and harder until she’s breathing harshly. Shiera always liked a little pain mixed in with her pleasure. 

“Shiera,” he manages, finally, brokenly, and she quiets him, stroking a hand over his face. 

“It’s ok,” she whispers, moving her hips in time with his. “It’s ok.” 

She clenches her inner muscles around him, meeting him thrust for thrust, and suddenly he’s finished, holding onto her so hard she’ll have bruises to cover up later. _Bruises to remember me by,_ he thinks, bitterly, when he can think again. 

Shiera is stroking his hair, still wrapped around him from underneath. She makes a grateful sound when he rolls off of her. “You’re much bigger than me,” she says, teasing. It’s an old joke between them, but Brynden doesn’t want old jokes, he isn’t in the mood to joke. The mood in the room shifts, changing to something much darker and more serious, like it used to when the cold light of day would break through their windows in the morning, pushing them apart. Brynden wants to stop and go back to bed, to be with his lover, but he’s running out of time. He gets up, out of the bed and walks over to the desk, feeling Shiera’s eyes on him the whole way. 

“Brynden…” she calls out to him, like a warning when he picks up Dark Sister. He turns back to her, expression grave. 

“Shiera.” 

“No, stop it Brynden,” she says, sitting up, he hair falling in a silver tumble across her left shoulder. She looks like a dream, one he has to wake up from soon. Brynden sits back down on the bed, balancing the sword on his upturned palms. 

“This is a Targaryen sword,” he says, looking into her eyes. “It belongs with one of our father’s children, not a houseless Watcher on the Wall.” 

She shoots him a side eyed glance. “I went through a lot of trouble to broker that deal, you know. Do you know how difficult it was to arrange for our lovely cousin to have that fatal duel? You could at least pretend to be happy.” 

“Well I’m never _happy,_ ” he says, smirking. Lying. 

Shiera makes a groaning sound and sits up properly. “Stop, you sound like our awful brother.” 

At the mention of Bittersteel, Brynden frowns, then resolves not to let her manipulate him. “Be serious, please.” 

She sighs and looks away briefly before looking back. “Very well.” He stands, and offers her his hand. She takes it, letting him pull her up. Neither of them think to cover themselves, the concept of modestly long made ridiculous between them. Brynden regards her seriously. 

“Shiera Targaryen, I hereby bequeath to you the sword Dark Sister,” Brynden says, holding it out to her. She takes it with confidence, wrapping her hand around the slender hilt. It looks right, and Brynden’s resolve only grows. He needs to leave it all to her and embrace his new position. He will bring nothing with him to the Wall. 

“I admit I like the feel of it,” she says, admiring the blade. 

Brynden comes up behind her, sliding his hands across her shoulders. “It’s the sword of Visenya Targaryen, it was always meant for a woman’s hand.” 

She turns her head and kisses him, closing her eyes. Brynden wishes she wouldn’t, he’ll be living without them soon enough. Shiera breaks away first. “Are you _sure?_ ” she asks, and Brynden knows what she really means. But he had never been one to run. 

“Yes. I’m sure,” he says, holding her tightly. “I don’t care to have Dark Sister at all if I can’t have my sister wife.”


End file.
